


somewhere i have never travelled

by songs



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, what did i even do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7405564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs/pseuds/songs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>gladly beyond.</i>
</p><p>In an oddly tepid motion, Lance brushes the tip of his finger along Keith’s pulse-line. He says, “I can feel your heartbeat, here.” He takes Keith’s thumb, then, and presses it to his own wrist. “And you can feel mine. We’re the same, you dumbass. Me and you. You and everyone here. You’re fine. Wherever you want to go— it’s fine.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere i have never travelled

**☆.。.:*・°☆**

 

The universe is huge. _Enormous._ Which is quite an obvious thing to say, Lance is well-aware. But he can’t think of any smarter way of putting it. There are so many wondrous people and places to see, to experience. The textbooks back home couldn’t even begin to scratch the surface. Lance remembers learning about Pangaea, about stalagmites and the water-cycle and war.

 

But there is still _so much more_.

 

He’s taken to tallying the days in the notebook he keeps on his nightstand. It’s a rough estimate, what with the wormholes and the lack of sunsets and moon-rises, but Lance finds it comforting, nonetheless. Sometimes he’ll add anecdotes in the margins: _Today, we visited a quartz planet; today I met a beautiful alien-girl who had hair the color of pearls; Who would’ve guessed that asteroids actually_ do _taste like cheese?_

So far, they’re on day one hundred and two. He’s not sure if time works the same here as it does on earth, or if they’ve really been gone for nearly a third of a year. Lance also tries not to wonder if his mother misses him, or if she’s lonely. It hurts to think about. It hurts enough to fill up the whole, wide galaxy.

**X**

 

_Why do you want to be a pilot?_

It’s the first big question anyone ever asks Lance. Consequently, it is also the last, before Allura’s: _Are you ready to save the world?_

See, Lance likes to think he is a pretty deep guy. Perhaps not ocean-deep, or abyss-deep, but _at least_ average-sized river-deep. Maybe. People don’t usually come to him for advice, which is kind of their loss, because Lance can be _wise._ Occasionally. Most of it is thanks to his mother, who will always be Lance’s favorite person in all the universe.

 

He misses her more than anything.

 

_Why do you want to be a pilot? Why do you want to leave home?_

Lance remembers not knowing how to answer these. Every cadet at the Galaxy Garrison had to wade through a storm of skill-tests to be admitted, but those two questions— simple and childlike and printed on clean paper— had gotten to Lance the most.

 

 _Just be honest,_ his mother had told him. _That’s the only thing you have to be._

_Did you ever want to be one?_ Lance had asked her, ignoring the blank sheet. _A space-warrior? A pilot?_

His mother had laughed. _I like where I am. Earth is beautiful. I know it like I know my favorite stories. I’m older, now. I can’t read a universe of books. I could only touch a few lines, here and there. Is that worth it?_

_But there’s so much out there,_ Lance had said, _what if there’s something even better?_

_Lance, my love,_ she’d said, like always, as though his name were a song, or a lullaby, _when we are young, we all want to be pilots. But as we get older, we realize that we only wanted someplace to belong._

_Are you saying,_ Lance had said, _that I shouldn’t do it?_

_I’m saying, be honest,_ she’d replied, _and find out for yourself._

 

**X**

In the end, Lance had written this: _I want to protect the world, so it’ll stay safe for those who love it. I also want to see everything I can, to_ do _everything I can, before I return._

That had been the endgame, all along: _coming back._

**X**

 

Day one hundred and three starts like so:

 

Keith is missing. Which is blatantly untrue. Keith is _absent,_ which, 99% of the time, generally translates to: Keith is at the training deck, while everyone else is at least attempting to have some semblance of a social life.

 

“Will one of you find Keith?” Allura asks, in that special tone that suggests she’s not exactly _asking._ “He hasn’t been to breakfast since we returned from _Aphros_.”

 

“The weird, love-juice planet?” Pidge makes a grim, lemon-sour face. “That’s been at least a week.”

 

“Noses,” Hunk says immediately. Before Lance can even register the word, everyone in the room— _Shiro included,_ the two-faced traitor! — has a finger placed firmly on the tip of their nose.

 

Well, except Coran. For whatever reason, he’s using his tongue.

 

Lance is caught between saying _No way in Galra,_ and _Screw all of you._ Shiro even has the gall to give him an apologetic look.

 

“Sorry, Lance,” he says, “I promised Pidge I’d give her a combat lesson after we ate. I’m sure you and Keith will be fine.”

 

It seems like a poorly veiled form of pretext, but whatever. If the gang wants him to go and make nice with Keith, then they can continue to _want._ Lance isn’t about to contest a game of _noses,_ no matter how unsavory the result— but he’ll definitely employ it the next time Allura asks about dish duty.

Anyway— the search only lasts about fifty seconds. No harm, no foul. As predicted, Keith is alone in the training sector. He’s propped up against the far wall, presumably on a break, or something. The robot-enemy-computer simulation stands frozen— paused, yet poised for battle. Keith, meanwhile, takes a long drink of water. As if Lance isn’t even there.

 

For some reason, this is unbearably annoying.

 

“A _hem.”_ Lance loudly clears his throat. Keith instantly jerks to face him. _A little too late, Red._ “You alive, Mullet?”

 

“Can you not call me that?” Keith says, snappy as ever.

 

“I dunno,” Lance drawls. “Does it really matter what I call you? If I were an enemy, you would’ve been dead five minutes ago. And dead men have no names.”

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how the saying goes. Plus, I _did_ notice you,” Keith says, but it’s a blatant lie. Which is— alarming, in a way, because Keith is a lot of things: hot-tempered, volatile, and completely _obsessive_ on a good day. But he’s never been slow. Or an easy target. “I was just ignoring your presence.”

 

“My presence is a present,” Lance tells him. “Be thankful. Tons of girls would _kill_ to be in your place.”

 

“Are these the same girls you sleep-talk about? The dream-ones?” Keith retorts, smirking.

 

Lance feels his face flush. “Shut up. They’re— _very_ real. These girls. The realest of the real.”

 

“Sure,” Keith offers, moving to stand. “Then could you maybe go see them, instead? I need to finish up here.”

Lance has the sudden, aching urge to knock Keith back down. To fall along with him, to spit and snarl and _see,_ with the both of them glaring, eye-to-eye. _Why are you so much better than me? Why am I always looking up at you?_

“No can do,” Lance says, after a beat. “I’m here to retrieve you.”

 

“For _what_?”

 

“Breakfast,” Lance says. “I know this might be difficult for you— but could you possibly be emo, or goth, or whatever it is you are, out in the dining room every once in a while?”

 

“I need to practice,” Keith says, his lips thin.

 

Lance turns to the simulation. “Does this shit actually help?”

 

“Of course,” Keith says. “It has levels and specs and everything.”

 

“I meant,” Lance starts, almost hesitantly. “It’s not real.”

 

“So?”

 

“It’s not a real—” Lance has no clue why he’s even saying this. “Breathing, living thing. It doesn’t have feelings. When we’re out doing the real deal, you’ll be fighting some _one_ , not some _thing_.”

 

“Either way,” Keith says, his jaw clenched, “an enemy is an enemy. They’re _evil.”_

“Galra is balls insane, yeah, I get it,” Lance argues, “but other planets could argue the same about us, y’know?” _About you. Angry, heedless, red, red lion-heart._ “It’s _different.”_

“Well, how are _you_ any different?” Keith asks. “You’re talking like you haven’t shot someone before.”

 

This shuts Lance right up. Because— it’s _true._ But even so—

 

“Earth can be ugly, too. But we still protect it with all we’ve got, right?”

 

Keith does not respond.

 

“... _Right?”_

Keith does not say, _Right._

**X**

Lance decides he might’ve hit a nerve. Tripped up an entire landmine. But he doesn’t care. Doesn’t give a single shit. Because Keith had to go and pull out the big, metaphoric guns, and Lance is _pissed._ He’s absolutely _livid._

What makes matters worse is that he’s beginning to doubt himself. Like, a full-on, pre-quarter life crisis. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could speak to his mother. He wishes he could organize the emotions in his head. It’d be so much simpler if he could sift through them, and see why they keep conflicting with one another.

 

See, Lance isn’t stupid. Lance knows when he’s being silly. He’s aware that the whole McClain/Kogane rivalry is mostly up in his head. He knows Allura has no interest in him. He knows when girls don’t like him, and knows for a fact that he doesn’t like _only_ girls. Those’re the blatant things, the easy things.

 

The hard part is when two realities just don’t match up. For example: the stars. On Earth, they’re beautiful. From afar, they’re jewel-patterned, dream-realms. Castles in the sky. But nowadays, Lance practically _lives_ in a castle that roams the sky. And up close, the stars aren’t quite so lovely.

 

They’re frightening. They’re _dangerous._

_Imagine the moon not being the moon. Imagine the stars not being the stars you knew._ It’s the kind of metaphoric chess-game his mother would love to play. But Lance is tired of games.

 

Mostly, he just wants to go home.

**X**

_(But what if I can’t?_

_What if I win?_

 

_What if I fail?_

 

_How can you tell the difference?_

No one gives a dictionary-definition for _Paladin._ Or _Voltron._ Lance would assume: _Justice._

 

Would everyone?)

 

**X**

 

Lance remembers the whispers that followed him through the Garrison-halls. They would cling to him like skin, unwavering as a ghost.

 

_Know who you are replacing. Know who fell so you could rise. You’re not the prodigy he was. You’re just lucky._

Later, he has a name to pin the blame onto. _Keith. Keith Kogane._

_Will I ever stop blaming you?_

**X**

They land on some dumb, red sparkly planet, to collect emergency supplies. Coran and Hunk scout for the goods with Shiro, while Allura and Pidge make adjustments to the ship’s software.

 

This leaves a very, very unpleasant predicament. Lance eyes Keith, who eyes him right back.

 

“Behave,” says Allura, sharply. Then, she taps her chin. “Also, see if you can find us something to eat. _Perse_ is known for its delightful fruit.”

 

“Sounds risqué,” says Lance, just as Keith replies, “Fine.”

 

The two boys glower at each other, and then, with a goodbye-wave from Pidge, they’re off.

 

**X**

“We passed by that bush seven times, already.”

 

“That is not a _bush._ It’s— gem-made foliage. Don’t assign false taxonomy to the facets of this world’s environment.”

 

“I have no idea what you just said,” Keith deadpans. “But I’m assuming you pulled it out of your ass.”

 

“Oh yeah? What would _you_ know about _my_ ass?”

 

“Preferably, nothing.”

 

“H-how _dare_ you!” Lance sputters, indignant. “First, you go and—” He cuts himself off abruptly. “Why are you always insulting me? Huh? Too good to be around me, mister Star Pilot? _Wonder Boy_?”

 

“You’ve got this completely backwards,” Keith says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re always coming after _me._ What am I supposed to do? We’ve had all these chances to, uh — _bond_. But you just throw them back in my face!”

 

“I do _not_!”

 

“You _do_.”

 

“Do _not_.”

 

“ _Do, too!”_

 

“I—” _I don’t know what to be like, with you,_ Lance thinks.

 

Then, he says, “ _Oh._ ”

 

“What is it?” Keith demands, but once he follows Lance’s line of vision, his mouth shapes into an awed ‘o’.

 

They’re in a forest. Or maybe an orchard. A fruit-bearing space, a _living_ place, with nothing but a vast glade and crystal-waters, for miles and miles.

 

Keith points up to the tree nearest to them. It’s just a sapling, not too tall, but still gangly enough to tower slightly over them. Its leaves make a scarlet-canopy. “Do you think that has food?” he asks, breathless.

 

Lance wills his heart to steady itself. Is he really that hungry? Starving enough to swoon over fruit? _Relax,_ he tells himself, _Be normal. Stop fretting._

“I’ve got this,” Lance says, truthfully. He’d grown up a scabby, outdoors kid. Scaling trees, scuffling through brambles. An earthen boy. His mother’d always dreamt of keeping a garden. She used to have one, when she was young. “I’ll get a couple for us, alright?”

 

With that, Lance grasps at the lowest of the branches, secures his footing, and _climbs._ Keith just— watches. Which is vaguely unexpected, because Lance had predicted he’d at least yell a bit, or something. His assumption may have been slightly off.

 

 _You think you’re some sort of genius, but really, you’re kind of an idiot,_ Pidge’d told him, the other day. Which may have been rude and uncalled for, but also, maybe—

 

“Be careful,” Keith calls out.

 

— _true?_

 

Lance makes it midway up the trunk. Several gleaming, rose-colored fruits hang amidst the leaves. He grabs three, before nearly losing his balance. Keith’s ‘ _Careful,’_ rings in his ears, and then, he is climbing back down, and ambling back to the other boy.

 

Keith remains silent, even as Lance pries one of the shells in two. It takes a bit of elbow-grease, because _some people_ aren’t gym-junkies or training-junkies or _what-have-you,_ but he gets the job done. Inside, a tesserae of jewel-seeds glimmer like a spell.

 

“Wow,” murmurs Keith.

 

 _Maybe it's a pomegranate,_ Lance thinks, even though it can’t be right. Because that’s an earth-food, and a scarcity to boot. He’s never tried one, but his mother often raved about eating them as a girl.

_It’s hard to open up, but once you try one, it’s worth all the effort in the world._

The thought skims through Lance’s mind in the same second that he meets Keith’s stare. _Idiot, idiot, you sappy, farmboy fool._ Before he can focus on the meaning of it, Lance thrusts out the peeled, ruby-fruit, and says, “Here. For you.”

 

Keith gapes. He looks like a fish. A— _pretty_ fish? Goddammit.

 

“It’s red,” Lance blurts, unsure if his pride can take any more damage than this, “Like your lion.” _And your lips._ The last thought is wholly unnecessary. But it still sprouts up.

 

“Um,” Keith says, at last, “Thank you.”

 

Lance shrugs. _Breathe, breathe. The hell is wrong with you? Breathe._

“Let’s just— _go._ ”

 

**X**

 

_What the hell? What the fuck? What the helling fuck?_

No, wait. That’s definitely not how it goes. But Lance gives _negative twenty fucks._

Because holy fucking _balls_ , he might’ve just flirted with Keith? And it? Was _nice?_

Lance holes up in his bedroom the moment they get back on board. He skips the team huddle, as well as the dinner that _he_ procured. Instead, he ruminates on every which possible way he might’ve gone wrong throughout his Space Opera journey to get to this gutting, _impossibly low_ point.

 

_Was it the morality debates? The one-sided rivalry? The daydream where we get really close and yell? Did I want to yell in those or—_

A knock sounds from his door. Lance ignores it. The person knocks again. Lance again ignores it. The person (“I _know it’s you, Keith, and I don’t wanna see your fugly Mullet-framed face, right now,”)_ slams into the door with such immense strength that the monitor lights blare on and off, and it actually _slides the fuck open._

“The hell?” Lance asks.

 

Keith says, “I’m here to _retrieve_ you,” in the sauciest voice Lance has ever heard from him.

 

“Well,” Lance says, “Attempt failed. Go and tango with your Galra-Sim.”

 

“I’d rather do that with you,” Keith says.

 

Lance jerks to face him. “ _What_?”

 

“Do you… wanna spar?” Keith asks, a bit awkwardly. His neck is red. It matches his collar.

 

Lance glances at the apple of his throat.

 

“Alright,” he replies.

 

**X**

Keith wins. Which isn’t much of a surprise. The kid fights like a demon. There’s a flame to every motion, every blow and dodge and kick. They don’t use weapons, which seems rather counterproductive in retrospect, but Lance isn’t quite sure of what the game-plan had been to start with.

 

 _What are we doing? What are we_ ever _doing?_

No answer comes.

 

They’re sweating by the end of it. Panting and slick and boneless. Lance blushes, immensely glad for the easy covers of exertion, or anger.

 

Keith sips at his water. The swallowing noise he makes should probably be illegal. Then, he says, “I’m sorry.”

 

Lance gawks at him. “ _What_?”

 

“You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

 

“And with _good reason._ What’re you even apologizing for?”

 

Keith toys with the hem of his shirt. “For what I said. About you… shooting that guy. It wasn’t fair of me. You weren’t even awake. Plus, you saved me.”

 

_We had a bonding moment. I cradled you in my arms._

_I wasn’t even awake._

Lance licks his lips. _Where do I go from here?_

“I still did it, though,” he manages, “and I’d do it again. If you— if _any_ of you were in danger.”

 

Keith says, “Do you think it’s wrong, though?”

 

“Do you?”

 

“I don’t know,” Keith admits, “I think I’m different from you.”

 

“That’s not a bad thing, y’know,” Lance says, hoping to lighten the mood. “Mildly unfortunate that you don’t have this face, but. We can’t have everything.”

 

Keith smiles weakly. “The fruit you got from _Perse_ was really good. You should try some, before it’s gone.”

 

And in that split, crescent-second, between smiling at Keith and searching for some way to answer, Lance realizes:

 

_I think already have._

**X**

The sparring becomes a regular thing. So do the late-night chats that come afterwards. Keith isn’t exactly a conversational guy, but he always talks when he has something important to say.

 

It’s day one-hundred and forty-four when Lance asks: “Hey, Keith?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Do you remember our entrance exams? For the Garrison.”

 

He nods. “Oh, yeah. That simulation was super easy.”

 

 _Well, I failed that part,_ Lance doesn’t say. He clears his throat. “I meant the written piece.”

 

Keith tilts his head. His hair shines, like it’s been combed with ink. “Uh, what did it ask?”

 

“ _Why do you want to be a pilot?_ ” Lance tells him. “ _Why do you want to leave home_?”

 

“Oh,” says Keith.

 

“It took me ages to answer,” Lance confesses.

 

“That’s still better than me,” Keith mumbles, knees curled up to his chest. “I… never answered.”

 

“You _what?”_

_“_ Is your vocabulary losing steam, or something?”

 

“How did you make it to _top of the class_ if you didn’t even complete the _written exam_?” Lance’s shoulders shake. This— it’s not fair. He’s remembering the boy, the ghost he used to see whenever Keith passed by. _Prodigy. Miracle-pilot. An unmatched star._ How stupid could Lance be? In what universe could he be on equal ground with _Keith Kogane?_ “How good did you think you _were?_ ”

 

“I didn’t leave it blank to be an _asshole,_ you idiot,” Keith hisses. “I didn’t have an answer to the question. Because I _don’t have a home_.”

 

Silence.

 

Silence.

 

And for once in his goddamn, ridiculous life, Lance has no idea what to say.

 

“See?” Keith grunts, shifting to get up. “You don’t understand! _I’m not like you._ Earth— I never belonged there. It’s a place I’ll protect, but it’s not my home. This— this _war_ is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I know that’s wrong. I know it’s messed up. But I can’t hide away from the fact that it’s _true_.”

 

_When we’re young, we all want to be pilots. But as we get older, we realize that we only wanted someplace to belong._

“Wait,” Lance says, reaching for Keith’s wrist. “Please,” he adds, and— miracle of miracles— it _works._

Keith relents, though his expression is blank. He’s wound up tight, coiled as if he’s bracing for a fight.

_I’m always fighting with you, aren’t I?_ Lance muses.

 

_But I don’t want to, anymore._

 

In an oddly tepid motion, Lance brushes the tip of his finger along Keith’s pulse-line. He says, “I can feel your heartbeat, here.” He takes Keith’s thumb, then, and presses it to his own wrist. “And you can feel mine. We’re the same, you dumbass. Me and you. You and _everyone_ here. You’re fine. Wherever you want to go— it’s fine.”

 

Keith says nothing. His head dips forward, bowed and craned.

 

He does not let go of Lance’s wrist.

 

**X**

That night, Lance dreams of the moon. Of a red-mouthed eclipse. He awakens with a hot jolt.

 

 _Oh,_ he thinks, bleary with sleep. Wistful and stricken with it. _Oh, shit._

 

**X**

Lance is not panicking. Lance is not panicking. Lance is _not—_

Okay, maybe just a little. But who can possibly blame him? Certainly not Pidge, who is glancing at him every so often with mild disinterest, as he waffles around the common-room.

 

Eventually, he ventures, “Say, Pidge—”

 

She interrupts, “If you’re gonna say something offensive or obnoxious, I’m giving you the chance now to stop while you’re ahead, or restart.”

 

“—since you’re like, a girl-genius and all,” he continues on, trying not to chuckle when she smacks her palm to her forehead. It makes her glasses go off-balance, which is really kind of endearing. “Are you any good at giving… advice? About feelings?”

 

“No,” Pidge says, “but I’m perfectly capable of re-computing your bedroom door so it electrocutes you every time you walk through it.”

 

Lance winces. “Sorry,” he says, “that came out wrong. I meant…um. Have you ever—liked anyone?” Pidge’s eyebrows shoot up in what can only be described as absolute terror. “No! Not like that! Not— me and you, oh my god, no. No— like. You actually really dislike someone, and think they’re gross, but you also, at the same time, think: wow. They’re kind of great?”

 

Hunk wanders into the room somewhere in the middle of Lance’s horrific speech. He’s sipping from one of those kind-of-yummy drink-pouches, and once Lance is finished, he says, thoughtfully: “I think I know what you mean, man.” Both Lance and Pidge abruptly turn to face him. “Like, whenever Coran cooks, I’m kind of like, ew, dang, that’s inedible, but also, I think I’ve lowkey been classically conditioned to react positively to the sight and aroma of goo. I don’t want to eat it. But I also do. It’s like— a dual recognition. Or something.”

 

“Or something,” Pidge echoes, before asking, with a grin on her lips, “You think _Allura_ is gross, Lance?”

_She knows,_ Lance thinks, frantic. _Pidge is psychic and she_ knows _who I’m talking about. Helling_ fuck.

 

“Ummm, I—” Lance falters. Just last night, he’d been crouched closely— _intimately—_ with someone else. With _Keith._ Breathing the same air as him. Sharing heartbeats. Now he feels as though his skin is itchy and achy and inside-out. Like nothing is right. “I’ve got to go. Wash my face. And stuff. Anyway, good talk, team. I’m gonna… skidaddle.”

 

Pidge shrugs. “If you get anything from the kitchen, bring it here. I’m kinda hungry.”

 

Once Lance is almost out of earshot, he hears Hunk say, “You don’t think he was talking about _me,_ do you?”

 

Oh.

 

_If only._

**X**

_How do you know if you belong with someone?_

_What if you’re wrong?_

 

**X**

_But what if you’re_ right _?_

**X**

“I would miss you,” Lance confesses, on day one-hundred and fifty. “When all of this is over, if I went back to Earth, and you didn’t. I’d probably. Kind of. Miss you.”

 

Keith trips. They’re mid-spar, and Keith had his leg poised in the air, aiming for a kick, but he loses his footing the second Lance speaks.

 

“ _What are you talking about_?” Keith snaps, his face cherry-bright.

 

“This is kind of belated,” Lance tells him, shrugging, hoping to appear blasé. “I’ve been thinking about it— since that time. We. Well.” He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “You said— you didn’t have. A home and all. But you’re completely wrong.”

 

Keith narrows his eyes. “Am I?”

 

“Voltron,” Lance says, knowing how cheesy this is, but not caring enough to stop, “is your home. This team is. Even if we’re on Earth. Even if we’re on the coattails of a comet. Even if we’re getting slammed by Andromeda or the milky-way or some bursting, insane-as-shit star, we’re here. Together. And stuff. Home—” _Sorry, Mom. This took me too long._ “—isn’t someplace you belong. It’s the people you’re happy with.”

 

Keith just— stares. And Lance stares back. Keith stares at Lance staring back at his staring— and _shit,_ it’s confusing as hell, but so are feelings, and Lance really wants to die, really wants to be something other than a pilot in the middle of the universe, with stupid eyes that only seem to see Keith, despite every blaring, beckoning star.

 

But then, Keith smiles. A real smile— not a crescent-thing, or a smirk, but one that fills up his entire face. Lance wishes he’d said this sooner, if it meant he could see that smile. Lance hates death and rue and war, but he’d give into all of them, if only for another glimpse of Keith being truly, honestly, _open._

“You’re happy with me?” Keith asks, at length. Not rude, or teasing. Just—

 

_Happy._

“Yeah,” Lance says, leaning in. He decides that he was wrong. Some things are more beautiful up close.

“I guess I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> it's 2 am. redblue slays me yet again ;;;; ♡♡
> 
> PS. title from e.e cummings' poem!
> 
> PPS. _perse_ and _aphros_ were definitely me trying to be suave and nodding 2 the classics a la persephone and aphrodite. i'm sorry i'm lame and if the effect didn't work LMAO
> 
> PPPS. comments are always the light of my life tbh ;A; thank you for reading !


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